“Mandy.” I draw her attention back to me. “You shouldn’t have let this happen. Seriously. Do you really think your pheromones or whatever will erase this guy’s memory?”
“I don’t know. I think they will?”
“I hope you’re right. Because if the PBI comes knocking, I legitimately will not know how to help you.”
The pixie sniffles with unmistakable guilt as she hauls Levi upright and helps him find kitchen towels to freshen up with. I use the time to investigate the damage to the cake. By the time Mandy’s returned, I’m not optimistic.
“So. The top two tiers of the cake are definitely ruined. The bottom ones are surprisingly… intact, but the detailing and sugar flowers look like smashed Play-Doh you’d find in a pre-K classroom.”
“I don’t think it looks so bad,” Mandy says hopefully.
“I’m not done with my negatives. The biggest one is this: food can’t be eaten after touching the ground. This cake is finished. It’s done for. Like us.”
“Is that really true? Because I’ve seen you eat—”
“The five-second rule doesn’t apply in a business context,” I explain.
“Oh,” says Mandy, eyes downcast. “I guess it’s been more than five seconds.”
“The point is, even if we cover up the damage, we can’t let people eat this.” I cast a look at Mandy. “Not any people.”
“Ohhhh,” she says.
Ohhhis right. I snap my fingers, drawing the gnomes’ attention. “You guys owe me big after that pooka-catching disaster. So. How about some gardening?”
Borrowing the kitchen knives, I command the gnome army to rebuild our cake. The multitalented little men scrape away smooshed fondant, giving the cake a “semi-naked” look. With unexpected artfulness, they affix loose leaves and blooms into the crumbled dents and crannies of the damaged cake, so it becomes more forest than disaster. I mean, really: the wedding cake has taken on the appearance of an ecologically intact forest, replete with tiny roly-polies peeking out of sugar-spun clover. While pretty, the result is more than a bit whimsical, a bit tooready for a nature documentary, and it resembles nothing of Sidney’s vision. Also, while dogs and other canines may not mind eating food off the floor, this cake will be inedible for the vast majority of our guests—which is why I approach the head table with distinct unease.
“Sabby!” calls out a familiar voice.
I should’ve guessed Hanry would find me. A good half hour has passed since he spotted me, and the memory of his wink alone makes my toes curl—which would be more pleasant if it weren’t for the stickiness of blood and sugar inside my Crocs. And on my face. And in the insides of my ear canals.
“Where’ve you been?” Hanry asks. “You look—”
“Frazzled?” I ask. “Overwhelmed? Like I’m losing my shit?”
“Beautiful.”
Hanry reaches down to wipe icing from my cheek, drawing his index finger slowly across my skin. Only after I suck in a breath do I realize he just complimented me, and my instinct wasn’t to immediately sink back and hide. This is novel. This means I’m changing; he’s changing me.
Or maybe I’ve inhaled too many oven fumes.
“Not now, Hanry,” I say, detaching his hand from my face. “I’m one mistake away from this whole party imploding.”
“Can I help?”
“I already took care of it.” Kind of. Sort of.
Though visibly disappointed, Hanry doesn’t push. “Yeah, I bet you did,” he says. “You’ve gotten good at this.” He untucks his handkerchief as if to wipe icing onto it. But then he changes his mind. He draws his finger to his lips and sucks off the icing, smiling at the taste.
Dear god. A hot jolt of desire blazes down into my belly.
“How about,” I say without thinking, “you meet me in the catering closet in five minutes? The one near the kitchen?”
Hanry’s eyebrows jump in surprise. “Okay.”
Oh, hell yeah.
“See you there,” I promise.
